


beautiful stranger (here you are in my arms)

by planetcleer



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, anyway these boys are GAY, band!au, ben the manager, bill the lead guitarist, mike the drummer, richie the bassist and lead singer, set in present day, stan the keyboardist, they're all a bit minor for the most part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22984801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetcleer/pseuds/planetcleer
Summary: The lead singer has a bass guitar slung over his shoulder and a mess of dark, wild curls barely contained under a highlighter orange visor with ‘DADDY’ embroidered in white. He’s wearing an equally offensive Hawaiian shirt with a white tee,tighttighttightskinny jeans, and black-framed glasses, and he’s ten times more gangly than Bill, made up of all boney, sharp angles.Eddie is pretty sure he’s never seen someone more beautiful in his entire life. In fact, he’s so taken that it takes Bev shoving her elbow hard between his ribs for him to finally tear his eyes away, “Ouch, Bev, what the fuck?”“Thought you might want to wipe that drool off your chin,” she flashes him that infuriatingly knowing grin and offers him another napkin, which he hastily snatches up to blot at his chin.There’s no drool there.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 5
Kudos: 111





	beautiful stranger (here you are in my arms)

**Author's Note:**

> here i am!! posting my first reddie fic after years of keeping like ten wips in my google docs!! i just hope y'all like it, i'm up waaay later than i should be trying to finish this lmao. 
> 
> anyway thanks for reading & have a good day/afternoon/night :')

Eddie sits cross legged on the bathroom counter, meeting his reflection’s thoughtful gaze with one of his own. His outfit for the night consists of a navy button up, complete with tiny white polka dots, tucked into white chinos, short and cuffed to show off more thigh, and pale, dusty pink boat shoes. It’s a new height in the preppier side of his fashion, but he sees no issue in that. All he really cares about is how good the shorts make his ass look.

The only issue is that he’s struggling now to pick out the proper eyeshadow, and he knows he has to be quick because the show starts in half an hour. Beverly sweeps in behind him then, all grunge and legs and beauty in her combination of high-waisted shorts, a crop top, and a flannel, and Eddie could cry because now he’s doubting himself. They are going to a bar. Why did he think preppy asshole was the way to go?

“Hey,” Bev knocks him lightly on the back of his head, completely ignoring the way he glares and rushes to smooth the hair down, “I’m not having that shit, Edward Kaspbrak. You look good. We both do.” She wraps her arms around his middle and drops her chin onto his shoulder, forcing him to look into the mirror, “Plus, your ass look tasty. I’m gonna be fighting boys off you all night!”

That makes Eddie giggle and roll his eyes, though the latter is mostly for show. Bev can always, always tell when he gets upset, and always, always knows what to say to make him feel better, and he seriously couldn’t ask for a better best friend, as much as she can drive him crazy.

Not for the first time, he thinks about how unlikely their friendship had been when it formed back in middle school, but how grateful he is that it aged so well. After all, Eddie wouldn’t be anywhere near the person he is now without her—she’s the one who helped him stand up to his mother for the first time, helped him start to become his own person out from under Sonia’s smothering shadow. She let him borrow her clothes and showed him how to put on makeup, even bought him some of his own basics for his birthday one year. (“Baby’s first,” she had joked, more fond than teasing, and Eddie, overwhelmed with gratitude and happiness, began to cry.) 

And in junior year, as they sat on the roof of their high school sharing a joint, worrying about their pasts and their presents and their futures, she had been the one to promise that they would go to the same college, that they would get an apartment together in a city somewhere, that she would get him, the _both_ of them, out of Derry. Eddie had taken one look at her, at her father’s handiwork blooming dark and purple across her cheekbone not for anywhere near the first time, and swore that they would never look back.

If he wasn’t so flamingly homosexual, Eddie thinks he would have fallen in love with Beverly Marsh a long time ago, but he is, and he didn’t, and so he meets her eyes in the mirror finally and holds up the eyeshadow palette in his hand with a grin, “What color should I go with?”

In the end, he settles on a rose gold glitter shadow, blending out into a deep maroon and then another dusty pink to match his shoes. It’s more than he usually does, but with his lashes fanning out across shimmering cheekbones, and his lips full and glossy, he feels confident. They end up leaving their apartment just in time, arriving minutes before the band is supposed to come on stage. Once inside, Bev jabs a thumb towards the bar, eyes bright, “I’m getting us drinks, go get that table near the front!”

As she disappears into the crowd, Eddie turns and pushes through the opposite way to the remarkably unclaimed table right by the stage. He tosses his jacket over his chair and leans back, surveying the atmosphere around him. The bar itself isn’t one they find themselves in very often, but tonight’s a special occasion that warranted the trek across the city—Bill Denbrough.

Well, more specifically, Bill Denbrough’s band playing a gig. He and Bev had gone to high school with Bill, and though he normally ran with a crowd of kids from a different school, he was a cool guy to talk to. He often ate lunch with Eddie and Bev and they each had classes with him throughout the years, but since they hadn’t ever been close, it wasn’t much of a surprise when they lost track of him after graduation. Beverly had recently run into him on the subway, though, and they had been talking pretty regularly ever since, which led to both her and Eddie being invited to see his band (coincidentally made up of said crowd of kids from a different school) play a show.

Eddie sighs dreamily, mind on the gigantic crush he had on the other boy back in school. Nothing had ever happened between them, but he can’t help his rekindled interest considering he and Bev spent three (THREE!) drunken nights at home stalking his Instagram and Twitter accounts since getting back in touch with him and he’s just as cute as he was three years ago. To be fair, it’s a bit of a lost cause to hope that Bill will _notice_ him like that, especially considering _that smile_ Bev has every time she opens his texts, but hey, a boy can dream, can’t he?

He’s pulled from his thoughts by a glass nearly slamming down in front of him, liquid spilling down the sides to pool on the table. “Oh, shit. Sorry, Eddie,” Bev smiles apologetically as she slips into the chair beside him, handing him a napkin to mop up the alcohol with, “Malibu Cocktail for you, Sex on the Beach for me. Enjoy, kiddo.”

He wants to sneer at the use of the word ‘kiddo’, but she did just buy him his drink, so he keeps his mouth shut. Instead, they start talking about their respective weeks and work and the crowd and what kind of music they think the band will play, and before either of them has time to wonder when the show will start, the stage is illuminated.

Bill walks out, all mile long limbs and striking green eyes, and beelines for a guitar that’s directly in front of their table. Eddie is so stupidly enthralled by the way the muscles in his arms move as he hikes the strap over his head, and the way his teeth flash as he smiles, and the way his blue and white baseball tee hugs his slim build, that he forgets entirely to look at the other band members until, without introduction or warning, they launch into a song. As the music starts, his eyes travel instinctively to the lead singer, who is just, you know, he’s—he’s just, well—

“Wow,” Eddie breathes, stunned, because his brain has completely short-circuited and apparently can’t supply anything better than wow, wow, wow, fucking _wow_.

The lead singer has a bass guitar slung over his shoulder and a mess of dark, wild curls barely contained under a highlighter orange visor with ‘DADDY’ embroidered in white. He’s wearing an equally offensive Hawaiian shirt with a white tee, _tighttighttight_ skinny jeans, and black-framed glasses, and he’s ten times more gangly than Bill, made up of all boney, sharp angles. 

Eddie is pretty sure he’s never seen someone more beautiful in his entire life. In fact, he’s so taken that it takes Bev shoving her elbow hard between his ribs for him to finally tear his eyes away, “ _Ouch_ , Bev, what the fuck?”

“Thought you might want to wipe that drool off your chin,” she flashes him that infuriatingly knowing grin and offers him another napkin, which he hastily snatches up to blot at his chin. 

There’s no drool there.

He huffs, glaring daggers in an effort to hide his pink cheeks, and tosses the crumpled napkin at her head, “Yeah, well, just a reminder that you don’t have x-ray vision, so you can stop staring at Bill’s crotch now.” The comeback is weak and they both know it, but she just laughs instead of pointing it out.

“Eddiebear,” she starts, sweetly, and he feels a hot flash of irritation at the stupid nickname. His mom had called him that _once_ while Bev was within earshot and now she uses it whenever she’s feeling particularly bothersome, “You’re deflecting.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up. I’m getting another drink,” Eddie swallows the last of his cocktail and moves to slip out of his chair, but Bev, in a surprising show of what he tells himself is kindness but is more likely just pity, waves him off and gets up instead. Far from one to protest someone else buying him a drink, he shrugs and settles into his seat, feeling properly appeased.

By the time he looks back up at the stage, the song has ended, and the lead singer is grinning wickedly, “Heyo! How are you guys doing tonight?” The reaction he receives from the crowd is relatively high energy, and his smile somehow grows wider, “I know, I know, some of you are probably thinking ‘who are these assholes? do I have to listen to this shitty band all night?’, but let me stop you right there. We are The Losers, and yes, you’re gonna be subjected to us for awhile, so you might as well get cozy. I, for one, am pretty fuckin’ pleased with this turn out, and in all seriousness, I really hope you guys like the show. Let’s go, boys!”

Similar to the first song, there’s little warning or lead up to the music—as soon as the words leave Richie’s mouth, all four of the men on stage dive into the next song almost at full volume. It startles Eddie at first, but he doesn’t fully mind, nodding along to the beat with his eyes glued on the lead singer. (He is a little salty that he didn’t get a name, but that’s whatever.)

Bev reappears at his side eventually, sets their drinks down more gently this time, and he’s pretty sure, judging by the grin on her face, that she took a shot or two while up at the bar. That must be why she offered to get the next round, _bitch_.

As the show progresses, Eddie meets Bill’s gaze a few times and throws his thumbs up, garnering a bright smile in return, but finds himself mostly watching the lead singer as he bounds back and forth across the stage, leans back to back with Bill as they play, dances wildly in front of the relatively reserved keyboardist until he’s forced to start bopping around, too, laughs with the drummer before honest to God backflipping off the platform.

(He performs like he’s Mick Jagger or Prince or Freddie Mercury selling out Madison Square Garden and not whatever-his-name-is getting paid a couple hundred to play at a _just_ average local bar, but his energy and passion makes the show that much more enjoyable—and makes Eddie that much more attracted to him.)

At some point, probably three drinks in, Bev drags him up right in front of the stage where literally _no one else is dancing, Beverly, what the fuck_. He tries to pull away, tipsy but not drunk enough to make a fool of himself, and when he glances nervously up towards the stage, he finds the lead singer staring at him as he sings into the mic. When he catches him looking back, he moves with an impossible burst of energy, bouncing, swaying, clearly trying to get Eddie more into it, and with a laugh, Eddie twirls Beverly around, already having forgotten his own hesitance. 

Another hour goes by, and finally the singer slows to a stop in front of the mic stand, voice ragged, curls damp with sweat, grin sunny and blinding and breathless. Eddie, having returned to the table with Bev two shots ago, is too far gone now to be able to quell the thoughts _that_ brings to mind. “Hey, listen, thanks for having us and being fuckin’ great, guys. I’m Richie—” and he twists, pointing out each of his bandmates as he names them, “—and that’s Bill totally shreddin’ it on lead guitar; keyboard wizard extraordinaire, Stan the Man; and Mikey, as always, holding us together with the drums.” He turns again and meets Eddie’s gaze with a quick wink before returning his attention to the crowd, “We’re The Losers! Thank you again for comin’ out. Stay safe, rideshare, and have a good night!” 

The group of them accept their applause graciously, waving and laughing to one another as they collect their things and head off of the stage into some sort of back room. Eddie chews on his lip, processing. _Richie_. Funny, talented, charming, quirky style, just the right mix of infuriating confidence and goofy genuity, and _damn_ , he would _really_ like to kiss that mouth. 

“C’mon,” Beverly grasps Eddie’s wrist after ungluing herself from her phone, tugging him out of his fantasies and onto his feet, a familiar mischief flashing in her eyes, “Bill says we can go back there to see him, and you can meet Richie.”

“Bev,” Eddie starts, tone low with warning, but quickens his pace to keep up, “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.”

“He’s bi and single, so you’re welcome.” She looks back at him, unapologetic, and he grumbles unhappily but says no more. Bev’s ability as a wing-woman is undeniable, he just hopes Bill didn’t happen to mention his interest to Richie. There may have been some vague flirtation during the show, but just because he’s available and technically interested in men doesn’t mean he’s interested in Eddie specifically. He can already feel heat rising to his cheeks at the idea of his crush being one-sided and Richie being painfully aware of it during their first time even _meeting_.

They approach a different door than the one the band left through, but Bev pulls it open with confidence, leading the way through to the hallway on the other side. A familiar face pops out of one of the open doors to their right, beckoning them closer with a disembodied hand, “Hey, Bev! Eddie! The green room’s in here.”

Bill disappears into the room but lingers near the door, waiting to welcome them with big hugs as they step inside, “Thank you so much for coming, it was cool to see you out there.”

“Thanks for inviting us,” Bev tucks a short piece of hair behind her ear as she and Bill part, both unusually nervous after holding one another a few moments longer than necessary, “You were awesome! I can’t believe you guys aren’t bigger yet, that show was amazing.”

“Yeah, we’re probably gonna have your music on non-stop now,” Eddie smiles into Bill’s shoulder before he pulls away, finding that, over the course of the evening, his crush has gone. He supposes he can thank Richie for that. At least it’ll make things easier when Bill and Bev inevitably start dating, at the rate things are going. “Maybe force it onto our friends, get you some more fans.”

“Oh, Billy-boy, I _like_ him,” a voice all but sings, and Richie appears at Bill’s side, one arm slung over his shoulders and the other stuck out straight, regarding Eddie with a faint smirk. The visor and damp tee are both gone, leaving his hair to curl around his face like a halo and his chest bare under the open Hawaiian shirt. “Free advertising! Smart thinkin’, there—Eddie, right? Cute, cute, _cute_. I can’t believe Bill never introduced us before, you’ll have to forgive how fuckin’ _rude_ he is, Eds. I’m Richie Tozier—trashmouth, lead-singer, comedian, charmer, whatever _you_ need me to be.”

Eddie blinks one, twice, bewildered, slowly reaching out to take Richie’s hand, his mind scrambling for a proper response and only suppling him with a weak, “Don’t call me Eds.”

“Sure thing, Eds,” Richie squeezes Eddie’s hand with another wink and drops it, turning to address Beverly instead, “Beverly Marsh! Jesus, I feel like we’re best friends already. Bill hasn’t shut up about you for two weeks, y’know. If you hadn’t come out tonight, I was gonna have to invest in ear muffs or some—”

“Beep-beep, Richie, damn! Leave Bill alone and let them breathe.”

Eddie lets out a quick breath, relieved, and follows the voice to the drummer, Mike, seated on a couch beside the keyboardist and across from another man that hadn’t been on the stage. Stan rolls his eyes as he adds, “You’re making yourself look like a total ass, _Trashmouth_.”

Before Richie can retort, which he _is_ planning on considering the way his mouth snaps open, Bill gently pushes him further into the room and glances between Bev and Eddie, seeming to be relatively unfazed by the whole thing, “You can stay and hang out if you want. We have drinks and snacks and, unfortunately, Richie for entertainment.” He ignores his friend’s indignant ‘hey!’ and leads the way back to the couches, “You guys should remember Mike and Stan, and this is Ben, he’s our manager. Guys, this is Beverly and Eddie.”

After offering them each a smile and wave, Eddie takes an empty seat and settles in while Bill grabs drinks. He asks for water, still comfortably buzzed, but Richie seems unimpressed as he flops down beside him, “I think we should do shots.” Sensing protest, he presses on with a wolfish grin, “C’mon, Eds, the night is still so young, have some fun with us. Bill, grab everyone a shot! I’m thinkin’ rum.”

Bill shakes his head but begins pouring seven separate shots, anyway, and even Stan—who Eddie suspects is the most cautious, like him—accepts the idea without protest, though somewhat reluctantly. Eddie starts to get the feeling that Richie’s almost exhausting charm gets him what he wants more often than it doesn’t.

But he can’t deny that, no matter how loud or fast Richie’s mouth is, he’s still crushing _hard_.

The shot is a good distraction, and helps to settle his nerves as much as they can be with Richie encroaching on his space like he is. They sit alone on the smaller loveseat, but honestly, there’s room enough for their thighs to not be pressed so closely together, for their arms to not constantly brush. He tries to be annoyed but can’t quite find the necessary heat to back it, heart fluttering pleasantly.

“So,” Richie all but slams his glass down on the coffee table in front of them, attention shifting as comfortable conversation starts up in the room, “Eddie my love, where _have_ you been all my life? Bill was really holding out on me. You’re just so—” he pinches Eddie’s cheek between his thumb and forefinger, “— _cute_!”

Eddie knocks his hand away, lips quirking into a frown, and tries to ignore the heat rising from his chest to the tips of his ears, “Don’t do that, Richie.”

“I’m being serious,” Richie says, _very_ seriously, but his demeanor cracks within seconds to what appears to be his usual easy grin, eyebrows wiggling, “It’s a real crime we didn’t meet sooner, but I guess we’ll just have to make up for the lost time.”

“We just met,” Eddie huffs a little too quickly, laying on the exasperation perhaps a little too thick, “You can’t just - Maybe I’m not even _interested_ , ever think of that?”

That draws a laugh from Richie, loud and clear, head tipping back, and as it slowly peters out, he goes so far as to wipe an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye, “Not interested—that’s rich, Eds!” He smirks, roguish, teasing, “You’re really gonna tell me you aren’t?”

Eddie’s face is positively burning now, but he’s saved from having to reply by Ben leaning over, offering him a joint, “Here, if you don’t want it, can you pass it to Rich?” But he takes it, trying not to exude as much relief as he feels, and takes a long hit. Maybe by the time Richie passes it off to Mike, he’ll have forgotten the whole thing and find some other topic to ramble on about. 

No such luck. “You could shotgun it to me,” Richie suggests in the middle of his second hit, and Eddie splutters, choking on the smoke stuck in his throat, “ _Or_ not. Don’t you die on us.” Richie thumps him on the back once, plucking the joint from his fingers as he dissolves into a coughing fit. 

“Eddie?” Bev calls from between Bill and Ben, reaching already for her purse, but Eddie waves her off as he draws in a few short, shaky breaths. He doesn’t really need his inhaler, hates the fact that he even still carries it around, but—and he’s _aware_ that this is the placebo talking—it does help him through his anxiety attacks and the occasional coughing fit. Just in case of emergencies, and Richie Tozier _isn’t_ cause for an emergency, as much as he seems to think he is.

Bev doesn’t seem convinced, smiling gently as she says, “Maybe we should go soon. I can call us a Lyft driver.”

“But you just got here,” Richie whines, high-pitched, like a kid whose mom just arrived to pick him up from a friend’s house, “And we’re havin’ a good time! _Eddie’s_ havin’ a good time, aren’t ya, Eds?”

“Don’t call me that, I mean it,” Eddie grumps in place of answering, unsure of whether he wants to stay and brave more of Richie’s teasing flirtation or make an escape back to the safety of their apartment. He’s leaning more towards the latter, but Richie—… God, Richie is smug, and presumptuous, and aggravating, and tactless, and completely and totally _enchanting_ , and as much as he hates to admit it, he kind of loves the attention. He suspects tonight won’t be the last he hears from Richie, no matter when it is that they leave, which he’ll less begrudgingly admit isn’t the _worst_ thing in the world.

And to think he started the night out still crushing on _Bill_.

“I’ll order one anyway, it usually takes awhile for them to get here. We’ll hang out ‘til then, if that’s cool,” Bev glances around at the band for confirmation, already swiping through her phone.

“I think there’s enough time for another joint,” Mike decides with a grin, and he scoots forward to roll another on the coffee table.

Richie perks up from where he’s been not-so-subtly sulking, eyes lighting up, “And another round! Who’ll do the honors?”

A long-suffering sigh and Stan rises to his feet, “Please, Richie, don’t get up.” 

“Oh, I won’t,” Richie assures him, obviously satisfied with himself.

In the lull, Eddie slides his phone out of his pocket to check the time, surprised to find that it’s already past one in the morning. Not that he has anywhere to be tomorrow, but the late hour suddenly weighs on his mind, making him vaguely sleepy. Richie leans over, crowding into his space again, but he doesn’t have the energy to bat him away. “Hey,” he starts, and his voice is softer than before, “Can I give you my number, Eddie?”

“Uh,” Eddie replies intelligently, flushing again, and nods, allowing him to take the phone from his hands. Stan passes him his shot shortly thereafter and by the time everyone else has their own, Richie has returned his phone, resting it on his thigh, his fingers lingering longer than need be. In response, he titters nervously and tosses his shot back before they even cheer.

Thankfully, Richie behaves the next ten minutes before their Lyft arrives. The joint circles a couple of times before reaching its end, and Eddie settles into a content, drowsy haze, leaning into the other’s side. Bev shifts, beginning to gather her things, “Okay, he’s, like, two minutes away.”

Bill stands with her, crossing the room to grab two bottles of water from the mini-fridge, which she accepts gratefully, “Thanks. I might have to make him chug one of these.”

“Eddie’ll make it,” Richie insists, nudging Eddie gently, “Won’t ya?”

Eddie hums and sits up straighter, nodding absently, “Yeah, I’ll make it.”

“Sure,” Bev scoffs, fondly, and moves closer to grab his hands, helping him up. Once he’s steady enough, she slips his phone into her purse for safe-keeping and leads the way towards the door.

“I’ll walk you out,” Bill offers, trailing behind Eddie.

“I’m coming, too,” Richie leaps to his feet and bounds after them, “Couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t see dear Beverly and lovely Eduardo safely to the car.”

They stay long enough to say their goodbyes to Stan and Mike and Ben, sharing hugs between them all, and Ben makes them promise to come out to more of their shows, to which they immediately agree. Before they follow Bev and Bill into the hall, Richie wraps an arm around Eddie’s waist for support and he accepts it with a small, almost giddy giggle. 

“You’re gonna come see our next show, right?” Richie asks as they make their way into the bar, which has cleared out considerably since the show ended.

Eddie blinks at him for a moment, because hadn’t he just been listening? “Yeah, duh. We can come hang out backstage again after, right?”

Richie snorts and smiles at him, indulgent, “Yeah, _duh_.”

“What if we hung out sooner?” His voice comes a bit smaller, and he has sense enough to avert his gaze, cheeks reddening once more. 

“Eddie,” Richie pushes the door open with his shoulder as he looks down, admiring Eddie’s sparkling cheekbones, his long, curled lashes, his soft lips, “I _knew_ you were into me.”

“Don’t ruin the moment, Richie,” Eddie replies without any bite, a faint smile gracing his features.

Beverly stands at the car door Bill holds open for her, and the two of them are whispering quietly to one another, sharing a private look. Figuring they have another moment or two to spare, Richie reaches for his cigarettes, trusting Eddie to stand on his own, “Bev’s got your phone, I think, but my number’s in there. If you still wanna hang out sometime after you sleep tonight off, just text me, okay?”

“Okay, Richie.” Eddie feels warmth bubble up inside him, appreciating the thought, but he already knows he wouldn’t be able to get Richie off his mind even if he wanted to, “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Eds,” Richie bites his lip and bounces on his toes, seeming to hesitate for the first time all night, before pulling him in for a tight hug. Eddie wraps his arms around him in return and sighs, enjoying the feeling of Richie’s chin on top of his head, the smell of his cologne ( _resilient_ , to still be able to smell it after all this time). 

Bill appears behind Richie then, clearing his throat, and Eddie reluctantly pulls back. They don’t want to keep the Lyft driver waiting, he supposes. “Bye, Bill,” he gives the other man a quicker, friendlier hug and steps backwards towards the car, reserving one last, shy smile for Richie before he turns, Bev’s hand gentle at his elbow, “Bye, Richie. Have a good night.”

“G’night,” Richie echoes as the door shuts, and soon enough, their figures on the dark sidewalk begin to grow smaller behind them. Eddie slumps against Beverly in the backseat and the two of them dissolve into giggles.

The next morning, between gulping down Motrin and complaining loudly to Beverly, he finds Richie’s number (sparing an eye roll for the contact name) and types out a quick text before he can talk himself out of it. 

_To: Richie Bitch  
slept it off. for some reason, i still think you’re cute. _

The reply comes in almost immediately.

_From: Richie Bitch  
i’m just that irresistible. free tuesday night?_

_To: Richie Bitch  
not anymore. pick me up at 6._

_From: Richie Bitch  
it’s a date ;)_

Eddie’s grin is stupid, idiotic even. For once, he doesn’t really care.


End file.
